


When The Bell Tolls by everythursday

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26695768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: As a Dark revival begins to rise four years after the war, Hermione Granger is placed on the assignment of putting an end to them - and her first task is to recruit the Ministry's best hope and last option in the form of Draco Malfoy.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Kudos: 10





	When The Bell Tolls by everythursday

#  **1**

**May 27; 7:05pm**

Hermione snaps the clip shut on her briefcase and steps back, raising her arms in line with her shoulders, the suit jacket pulling tight across her back. She flinches as magenta flashes at her from the corner of her vision, the spell swirling circles around her before glowing at her hip. She reaches down, pulling her wand and raising her eyes to the guard.

"You'll have to check that," he says gruffly, grabbing a quill as he scrapes a case across the desk.

Thick eyebrows furrow as he glances between her Ministry Identification and the sheet of parchment, his hand moving quickly enough to suggest he has long ago grown familiar with the specifics of logging wands. He holds out his hand without a glance towards her, her heart giving three painful thuds before she drops her wand into his palm. She watches as if the contact will explode his skin, and stops herself from wiping the sweat along her hairline.

She should have taken more Calming Draught. She shouldn't be here at all.

"Miss Granger?" a woman asks beside her, and Hermione turns her eyes up to the strong jaw and firm eyes. "Follow me, please."

Hermione pulls her briefcase from the desk, giving one last furtive glance to her wand, and turns for the metal bars. A loud buzz sounds out, her spine pulling straight, and she walks stiffly past the bars when they open. They slide shut behind her as the two guards tap a pattern on the stone wall, her breath catching for a moment before the stone gives way. Four pairs of eyes look up at them from the stretch of a hallway, and she concentrates on the sound of her shoes clicking across the floor.

She runs over her plan again, remembering what Kingsley had told her, and nods to the guard at the end of the hallway. Four wands tap on the bricks as she runs her thumb over the smooth handle of her briefcase, back and forth, keeping her breaths even.

"We'll be escorting you to level five, Miss."

Hermione looks up at the two faces revealed on the other side of the wall and nods. "I have to go to level eight."

"Guards with that clearance will be waiting at level five." Right. That's something like what Harry had told her.

The wall slides shut after she steps past it, listening to the keys jingle and clink against metal. She can feel the air pressing against her, the oxygen growing weaker in her lungs, and she almost jumps at the buzz of noise bouncing off the walls.

Prison cells. Hermione lifts her chin, keeping her eyes forward and her briefcase close to her leg. They are the ones waiting for their sentences at the Wizengamot, already branded guilty, and their impatience and restlessness is proven through the shifts of bodies and angry calls. Hermione feels like a prisoner, too, just as trapped as them as she reaches the bars that close off the hallway. The heckles and yells grow louder as the buzz sounds, the bars opening to more bars, and the other guard pulls out a ring of keys to open it.

They walk through a brightly lit room, guards chattering over a late breakfast or rifling through folders. They twist through corridors, lines of cells, up stairs and then down, down, down. The constant buzz, taps, buzz, taps. Hermione feels as if she is burying herself within the walls of Azkaban, and imagines a far heavier panic without the potion she took to calm her nerves. The closer she gets to where the Death Eaters are kept, the harder her heart pulses. She has to fight to knock the images from her mind, to remind herself that they are safely locked away, to keep her hand from traveling to the end of a wand that isn't there.

A distantly familiar face nods in greeting when she catches his eyes, and another man stares at her over a thick, scraggly beard. She meets his hard scrutiny for a moment before he turns, both guards muttering as their wands curve and swirl in unrecognizable spells against the wall.

_Truth_ , carved into the wall above a line of language she doesn't know, splinters open as the wall is pulled to either side. The two guards stand silently and still until she steps forward, and they turn with her, flanking her as she makes her way down a steep staircase in their wandlight. There is a faint smell of wet earth and strong magic, the steps growing darker with dampness as she carefully makes her way down.

For a few panicked seconds, there is paranoia. She almost convinces herself that the guards are traitors to the Ministry, leading her down to some abandoned place, defenseless and alone. Her heart pounds, her stomach rolls, and the handle of her

briefcase slips within a sweaty palm.

She pauses for just a second when she reaches the landing, watching the water drip down uneven walls, and the guards pass her to lead her down the dim hallway. Doors are firmly shut down the length of stone, but she sees one room with chains and another that holds a single chair at the center. She wonders what level eight is used for exactly, and remembers the carving of _Truth_ with something hot jabbing her in the gut.

"Have there been any changes to the meeting specifics?" a guard asks -- the one who she is sure she must have seen somewhere.

Hermione clears her throat, wiping a palm across the leg of her trousers, and pushes away the anxiety-ridden images of pale hands cuffed in chains to the wall. "No."

He holds a quill out to her, the feather brushing her skin before she takes it. "Tap this three times if you need us to enter the room."

She nods, clutching it like a lifeline as they stop in front of a door. The guards take a spot to either side, turning to face the hall, and she looks at the knob like it's on fire before gaining control over herself. She has been through this situation a hundred times after she got her assignment last week. There is no possible moment she hasn't prepared herself for. And it isn't _him_ causing the tension along her bones

\- it's this _place_. The way it reminds her of too many things. The sooner she got this over with, the sooner she could get back to the Ministry and be done with the animal of the past curling in her chest.

She clears her throat again, raising her chin. "I take it the necessary charms are in place."

"Yes."

Hermione nods, reaching out to twist the knob, her face set in distant, cool professionalism. She scans the room quickly, a blur of darker colors except for him, sitting at the other side of a table. She thanks whoever put him there for not chaining him to the wall. This might have had an even smaller chance of working then, and she isn't sure how well she could recite her speech with that sort of vision on the receiving end of it.

She forces her eyes not to jump to every waver of shadows from the flickering torches, concentrating on the gleaming wetness of the ground, orange from the glow

of fire, and black within the cracks of stone. She almost trips over a piece of rock popped up from the uneven ground, taking in a sharp breath, heavy with dankness and mold.

Hermione lifts her eyes to the inmate when her hand curls around the back of the metal chair, the legs scraping loudly across the floor as she pulls it back. His hands are chained to the top of the table, one clasped over the knuckles of the other. The black jumpsuit that marks inmates seems to suck even more of the weak light from the room, contrasting so sharply with the paleness of his skin and hair. Hair that now reaches broader shoulders atop a longer torso, and a beard that nearly makes him unrecognizable. He is bigger than she remembers him to be, but the last time she had _really_ looked at him was…sixth-year. He had only been sixteen then. Of course he is bigger, with years of male growth spurts, war, and Azkaban. He is nearly twenty-two now, in the middle of the years that a man is born. She wonders what kind of man he must have turned into, but knows she will find out soon enough.

Setting the suitcase down on the table, she quickly surveys to see how far he can push his arms through the metal cuffs and gain reach. She pushes the suitcase back and to the left, keeping it from crossing the center of the table, and pulls two thin folders, parchment, and her quill from the depths.

She meets his eyes for the first time, shadowed dark in the room and staring back at her unblinkingly. "Draco Malfoy."

He doesn't acknowledge her greeting, the light building expressions across the blankness of his features as she sits. She sets the warning quill down behind her suitcase, pulling out the inkwell and uncapping it with a push of her thumb. She hadn't expected him to say anything yet. She thinks in these types of situations, Malfoy must be the sort of person to wait to see what's in it for him before deciding on speech.

Hermione flips the folder open, but it's for show and something to do with her hands. She knows the words by memory, seeing them scrawl across the eye of her mind whenever she thinks of them. "Charged as a minor for attempted murder, accessory to murder, and assistance in trespass. Charged as an adult for membership in a terrorist group, use of Unforgivables, and various war crimes including torture and assisting imprisonment. Originally sentenced to ten years, extended for acts of violence and misconduct. You have served nearly four years of your sentence, with a remaining eight years and one month. Do you find this information to be correct?"

She waits out the pause for three seconds before lifting her eyes from the parchment. He holds her gaze for just as long, and her hand slides back to draw closer to the place she normally keeps her wand. "That I was charged with it, yes." His voice drags a little, rasping over vowels, and his eyes flicker to the folders.

"Once you have served another six years, you will be evaluated for early release on your remaining two years, depending on your imprisonment record, psychological evaluation, and interviews. You are kept at Level Four, the lowest level a former Death Eater can be jailed within. Previously, you were kept at Level Six, in which you had twenty-three counts of violence and misconduct, earning an additional sentencing of two years. You have not had any blemishes on your imprisonment record in sixteen months. Do you find this information to be correct?"

She glances up, long enough to catch the bob in his throat as he swallows, and dips the tip of her quill into the inkwell. "Mostly."

She writes the first line of the M before her eyes snap to his. "Mostly?" Silence. "Which part do you find to be incorrect?"

"Evaluations rely on other factors." His eyes flash to her hand before he adds, "Granger."

"Like?"

His jaw twitches and he looks at her like stupidity is too far below him to acknowledge. No matter how much has changed in his face, in the setting, or how annoying it is, she appreciates the look. It's better than the blankness he had been forcing earlier, too cold and fitting for where they are, and all she kept seeing around her was ivory masks and shooting green. This is something familiar.

Something before the war, and she latches onto that to drown out where they are.

"Like if I don't decide to agree to whatever you're here to propose." He leans forward, lighting away the shadows that had played across his face before, forming hollowness and sharper angles. "That's why you're here, isn't it? To _request_ something."

His eyes are brighter now. Bright, sparkling, alive, but no hint of madness within the storm of grey. She had mostly been expecting it. Few managed several years in Azkaban without a little insanity to leave or die with, even after the Dementors were no longer guarding the prison. But Malfoy is there, in this moment, sharp and as observant as he's always been, intelligence shining through within the steadiness of his gaze.

It feels more disconcerting than the madness might have been.

"How did you arrive to that conclusion?" His conclusion is correct but she wants to know. She rarely wins the fight against her own curiosity, though it usually served her well.

His eyebrow raises, his look condescending. "The last time I had a meeting, they gave me two more years in this rat-infested pit of hell. This time they bring me underground and have Hermione fucking Granger walk through the door. It's not difficult."

Hermione rolls the quill against her fingertips for a moment before setting it down, sitting up straight. "I'm here to make an offer."

"Of course you are." The chains clink off one another when he goes to lean back, and she traces the lines of them, making sure he's not about to free himself. It isn't until then that she notices the white of his knuckles, his hand clenched around the other now. His face is devoid of emotion again when she looks up at him, and she wonders what it is he's angry about and trying to hide.

"According to your file, you have access to the facilities once a week. A fitness room, book stacks, showers… How often do you read the news?"

He is evaluating her, his head dipping forward and his eyes locked on her through his fringe. His face is so stern and tense with concentration that she can feel her heart speed up, wondering if he somehow broke free from the spell they place on inmates to prevent wandless magic. She holds her breath, feeling for the slightest shift in air that will tell her she has to duck, tap the quill, attack.

"You want information."

She hesitates and his eyebrows draw down, creating lines across his forehead. "Yes. Researched information."

Two seconds, four, and he makes a sound in his throat that could be a growl or the start of his voice from underused vocal chords. "For fuck sake, Granger. I have over eight years left, but I don't want to spend them staring at your face. Get to the point."

She scowls at him, no matter how much she expected his anger. "As you might have read, there have been a lot of former members of Voldemort's army arrested for murder, torture, rape - honestly, the list goes on. They can't seem to control

themselves in society. However, the Ministry assumed that many of them were leading normal lives after release - until we discovered that most of them have gone missing."

Hermione grabs the second folder, flipping it open and turning it towards Malfoy, sliding it out far enough for him to read. "These are members of Voldemort's army who have been arrested for possession of Dark artifacts. The ones highlighted in blue have been arrested for crimes against Muggles while possessing a Dark artifact. The ones in blue were all sixteen or younger. Three of them were found with the Dark Mark. The oldest would have been twelve during the war. As far as our records show, _you_ were the youngest to ever take the Dark Mark shortly after you turned sixteen."

She watches him scan the names, wondering if he is searching for people he knows. "So, you brought me down here to ask about some kids trying to be Death Eaters?"

"No. I brought you down here because of this." She flips the parchment to reveal another list. "All young wizarding people, pure-bloods or half-bloods, found with their memories tampered and no idea where they had been the past several months. Or this. The list of all known Death Eaters who could not be found after the Battle of Hogwarts. This one, all the released Death Eaters and other members of the Dark who are now missing. Or this man, Lomett. His last spell was a Dark one to alter memories - he's in Mungo's permanent ward for his botched job, but we managed to uncover a few flashes of recent memories. One of them is of Rookwood's face, followed by one of Lomett killing a Muggle. Rookwood has been missing since before the final battle. Lomett committed murder two months ago."

Malfoy leans back from the folder, watching his hands as he rubs at a knuckle. "You're suggesting a revival."

Hermione slides the folder back but leaves it at the middle of the table, open and turned towards him. They have very little information beyond what she has already told Malfoy, but it's enough to know. There aren't coincidences in things like war and enemies. There is luck, perhaps chance, but not coincidences. The few who have access to the right information know it plainly enough. Even Malfoy had guessed it correctly before she even finished.

"Yes. We know little details, but we have gathered enough to know they are reforming, recruiting, and that some attacks are by the different groups. Some, of course, are from kids that we don't think are seriously involved within the actual groups. But it's only a matter of time before the groups bring them in and then forge

together. If they haven't forged already."

"You said researched information." He glances at the folder before looking up at her. "I don't know anything."

"Not yet." He stares at her, his gaze heavy, and she has to stop herself from shifting under it. She can see parts of him that are the same Malfoy she remembers from school, but there is more to him now. Things irrevocably changed in the course of war, prison, and age. "We're willing to offer you a shorter time on your sentence. As you stated earlier about the evaluation - we both know it's unlikely you will get released earlier when there is a string of murders and a revival happening. It's only going to grow more severe by the time you are up for consideration."

If she was talking about common prisoners for petty crimes, she might have found it unjust. But these are Death Eaters. She knows their crimes. She still sees them in her mind, still has them stealing her sleep at night. Her mum once told her that she could fit the world into the size of her heart and all its knowledge into the size of her brain. Despite it giving her a complex about the size of her head for several months, Hermione has always been proud of being that way. Of being who she is. But she still can't bring herself to forgiveness for what the Death Eaters had done - who and what they stole from her, her friends, and the world, without regret or compassion.

There are only a rare few she has learned to possibly understand the motives of during the years since the war had ended. It has taken her several years and even more inmate interviews during her time at the Magical Law Enforcement Department, but she knows the man in front of her is so far from the evil of most Death Eaters that he almost appears normal. Time had brought some edge of understanding to his choices for her - that, and several conversations with Harry and Kingsley over the month since Kingsley had first brought her to his office, swamping her with files, memories, and trial transcripts.

She is still on guard, though. She still doesn't trust him a single bit, or agree with him, or feel anything close to pity for the years he has served in Azkaban. Young, impressionable, desperate, and incapable of murder. That is who he had been. God knows who he is sitting in front of her as. He might have felt he had been without choice during the war and leading up to it. She had read all about what was on the line for him. He might not be evil, might have tried to not identify them at his home, might have only done what he had to under threat to his own life or family. But he is more than just a coward. His cowardice and beliefs - whatever the reason for them or if they might have changed - still damaged or took lives. He belongs here, at least for a little while.

And God only knew what he had been thinking in his years of imprisonment. It's not like the winning side welcomed him with open arms for the things he could not do. He was sent to trial and Azkaban for the things he could do, for what he tried to do, with a lesser sentence than the rest. He had no doubt been angry over it. Even angrier when he was charged again for the violence inside the prison. Voldemort might have forced him to do things he didn't want to, had threatened him and his family, but he had never locked Malfoy away - at least, not according to the trial transcripts and memory-copies in the Ministry evidence rooms. For all Hermione knows, Malfoy has been stewing the past four years. Convincing himself of everything he had ever been taught, growing more willful towards the genocide of the people who had put him there, and has not let go of his racism and arrogance, even if he's the one covered with dirt now.

Kingsley had said this is the only way they could get in and get information. It's the only one they could even come close to trusting, as long as they set up the right guidelines, barriers, and incentives. Hermione - after going through all his files - had agreed. She still doesn't trust it or like it, but it's their only way into the revival that might work and do so more quickly.

Malfoy stares at her for a long while in silence. She can tell he's trying to figure it all out without having to ask, but the agitation of not being able to is showing in the clenching of his jaw. "What do you want from me?"

"To get involved in the revival." Blunt, simple, there exactly.

He eyes her, and he sounds disbelieving when he speaks. "You want me to become a spy."

She nods. "Yes. We'll get information from you, locate them all in hiding, and bring them here."

He opens his mouth, hesitates, and then leans forward. "And I get?"

"The Ministry hold is taken off Malfoy Manor, and the house is turned over to your mother. You get released, without restrictions." Weekly check-ins were more requirements over restrictions.

"Released," he repeats dryly, and he looks angry when she nods. "And?" "And what?" He couldn't honestly assume that he could get more than that.

"The _catch_ , Granger. Don't insult my intelligence by pretending there isn't one."

He looks down at the folder, as if waiting for her to flip it again and reveal some sort of evil plan against him.

She shifts in her chair, brushing a wrinkle from her sleeve. "You won't be released until you complete your assignment."

His eyes narrow a fraction or the lights from the candles make it look like they do. "And if it takes longer than my sentencing?"

"I don't see this taking over eight years. We're not expecting you to find every Death Eater - just everyone involved, unless they flee separately." He releases a heavy breath and leans back. She waits out the silence while his eyes burn into the metal cuffs. "I know you had issues with Death Eaters and aren't likely to be accepted easily. The reports of your Azkaban breakout and list of problems in prison

\- including an attempt at rebuilding the Death Eaters - will help. Prison hardened you, they'll think. It made up your mind."

He turns the fierceness of his glare up to her, her hand inching back again for her hip before she stops herself. "Risk my life for an early release."

"Eight years early - if not more. You'll also get the proper credit for your assistance." She is sure he'll figure out what that means without her spelling it out for him.

The Malfoys could restore their reputation to what it was before the second war.

With Lucius still swearing he was under Imperius again, Narcissa having lied to Voldemort about Harry's death, and then Draco assisting in bringing down a revival effort? They would grow back into acceptable standing within society, which they needed to hold any sort of power within it. The idea of it forces a burning into her chest.

He opens his mouth, a sneer forming on his lips, but then hesitates. His eyes flash across the table, as if reading whatever thought came to mind, and his jaw clenches. A beat of silence, then four more. "I take it that knowing this is going to revoke my access to the facilities every week and letter sending, so I can't tell anyone."

"If you decline…possibly." She was going to tell him that they would likely charm him to be unable to speak or write about it, but if anything helps to convince him, she isn't going to take it away. "It's also likely that you will serve the entire rest of your sentence, though that decision would involve the board you'll face during evaluation, and have less to do with the one you make here today."

"Today," he repeats slowly.

"Within the week. I will need an official answer by Monday."

He drums his fingers against the table, scrutinizing her. "How do I do this from Azkaban?"

"You don't. You will leave Azkaban in the early morning and return at night.

There will be a house set up for you in case the Death Eaters get curious or you have to sleep outside of Azkaban for some reason. There will be Aurors there on those nights, who are cleared to know that this mission is even happening."

His mouth twists into a faint sneer and he looks more like she remembers him. "Do you think a _house_ is all it's going to take to convince them of my loyalty? Do you know how they work at all?"

_They_. She had noticed that in Malfoy's trial transcripts. He always referred to the Death Eaters as _they, them_. Nearly all others said _we, us_. "You're an Occlumens, correct?" He stares at her for a moment before giving the slightest nod of his head. "We'll be planting fake memories in your mind - created by the best the Ministry has. Undetectable for fraud or manipulation--"

"Comforting," he mutters.

"You'll know the difference. They won't. Just make sure they only see the fake ones. We also have counter measures against Veritaserum. You'll have a 'stolen' wand. You'll be wearing a necklace that serves as a Portkey that can be activated by you or me. Additionally, there will be a spell--"

"Or you?"

"Yes," she says, the word tasting acidic against the back of her tongue. "Me." "You're…what? My _liaison_?" The distaste when he spoke the last word was

evident, but she is surprised not to find a trace of malice in his expression.

"I'll be your guardian." His eyebrow hikes at the word and her shoulders might have slumped a little. "I will be handling all communication, transportation--"

"Are you going to be with me while I do this?" He sounds very serious and grave, as if her answer here will be the very thing that decides it for him.

"Abstractly."

He stares at her, the fingers running along a crack in the table now pulling into a loose fist. "You'll be tracking me. The necklace."

"There will also be a spell placed on you to make you locatable. This is for your own protection as well as ours." He couldn't have expected them to just let him go wander off without knowing where he was at all times. They trusted him as far as they could reach - after that, they used magic to guard themselves. It is the only way this could work.

He leans back in his chair, the cuffs scraping roughly against the table. His eyes remain focused on hers unblinkingly, and where others might have searched for some proof of truth or honor, his are steady and digging holes.

"I suppose you're a test. Make sure I don't say any"-his nostrils flare briefly, and there's a faint twitch to the corner of his left eye-" _insensitive_ remarks or attempt violence."

She can't say he's wrong. They had thought she would be the most fair, but also the most likely to break any attempt by him to play civility while he was plotting revenge.

"They use this lighting for intimidation. You just look like a child." His eyes flicker across her face and to her hair for a moment as her lips purse, but he doesn't say anything.

"The losers in battles are usually those who underestimate."

"I see. So…" He leans forward, his hands slowly drawing back to the edge of the table. Hermione's shoulders tighten until she feels the strain down her spine. "You're overestimating for me to break from these shackles and jump over the table. Perhaps to push my thumbs into your throat and stop your breathing. So instead, if I just slammed into the table and forced the edge into you at this moment, breaking your ribs, you already have a plan--"

The chair cracks against the floor as Hermione pulls out of it so sharply that she nearly feels as if she were brought there by some other force. Regret blossoms with rough edges as Malfoy raises his eyes to hers, his eyebrow hiked and a small lift to the corner of his mouth. He set her up - it isn't likely he would have actually done it unless the offer and more prison time meant nothing to him. It had been a natural reaction, though. More unstoppable than the rush of her blood, or the way her heart

had sped up. Danger, reaction, survival - that system is ingrained now. She is far less used to the mental warfare.

He'd pay for that. Somehow.

Hermione glares at him and then raises her nose, giving a casual, unseeing once-over of his face and shackled hands. Putting her folders and items back into her suitcase, she arranges them precisely, feeling the silence prickle at the nape of

her neck and the edge of her nerves. Buckling the case shut, she regards him with a cool look that proves nothing of her erratic heartbeat.

"Every night until Monday, the same man will give you your dinner. There will be beans placed on the tray. If and when you have agreed to our offer, eat them. I'll come back later that night. If you do not eat them by Monday night, the offer is gone."

She glares at him for a second more, his mouth firmly shut and his stare back to digging, before she turns for the exit.

**May 30; 9:18pm**

It is impossible to Apparate straight into her flat without being Splinched. There are too many wards and enchantments set up on the building, and they always take a moment to recognize her as she moved through each line of them. The one just after the resident Apparition point, the one at the door, the one before the next door, and the last of the protection spells just before the staircase.

Ron always says how he's paranoid they'll turn on him and splinter his body into pieces at any moment. Hermione calls him absurd, but then she remembers it each time she goes through them now. Once at the door to her flat, she uses two keys to unlock, a powerful unlocking spell, dismantles four spells, and holds her breath while the remaining ones recognize her. Few buildings allow so many protection and security spells, the owners afraid of it interfering with other residents or Muggle technology. It's the reason she had chosen this one over the more spacious flat near the Ministry.

She closes the door behind her, watching her kitten dart down the hallway before colliding with the doorway of the living room when he turns sharply into it. That kitten hates her. He is spastic, tears into everything, and regards her only from distances. He's nothing like Crooks, but she had gone two years in an empty flat before Harry showed up at her door with _that_ little ball of nerves, and she hadn't been able to resist. She doesn't have the heart to give Pepper away - a completely

unoriginal name by any standards, but Harry had insisted on it when the animal had gone three months as _the cat_.

Putting her wards back up, she locks the door and checks twice to be sure it's secure. She opens the coat closest, checks the living room, dining room, the kitchen and pantry. She checks the coat closet again on her way to the opposite end of the hall, then sweeps the loo, her study, the bedroom. When she's satisfied, she makes her way to her study, and reminds herself again about needing another bookcase as she steps around the stacks of books on the floor.

Pushing her briefcase across her desk, she fiddles with the stack of parchments beneath her red, glass paperweight - the one that keeps together her recent memos, notes, and letters suggesting new items to her schedule - and pulls her appointment book from the top drawer. Uncapping a marker, she crosses the date off the calender behind her, frowning at the _Vetti Collection opening - 7pm_ that's scrawled in tight script beneath her large X.

She pulls her chair out, settling down into the imprint of her bum and the curve of her shoulders within the cushion. The unbuckling of her briefcase is like a crack of thunder in her flat, the flutter of paper is a rain storm, and her heavy sigh is a hurricane pushing on, and on, and on.

**June 1; 9:21pm**

Malfoy's jaw is locked tightly as he reads one of the pages in front of him. The magical contract is brief - three and a half pages written up by a member of the Wizengamot, who at this moment would no longer recall having a part in it. It's heavy, though. There had been as much legal phrasing and loophole-covering clauses as possible, tightly shoved between every contractual law the Minister demanded. When Hermione had gone through all her paperwork from their meetings, she had been sure the contract Kingsley produced would be at least two dozen pages. She had read over the one he handed her tonight just as much, expecting to fall into the voids and grey area, but it's perfect.

She swallows dryly, needing water, but she doesn't trust anything in this place enough to drink it. "And so you are not allowed contact with anyone outside of myself and the presumed members of the revival, unless granted permission by me or the Minister. You will sleep in Level Eight during the day so as not to be seen by fellow inmates. All memories created during your assignment, and information gained throughout, shall be given freely upon--"

"Is the spell detectable?"

She gives a brief look of agitation for the interruption, even if it does give her a chance to build up saliva. She feels like her mouth has been open to the wind for hours, dry as winter air with her tongue dull. Malfoy hardly seems to pay attention, a small wrinkle deepening in his brow as his eyes reach the end of a sentence or paragraph and then flit back to the beginning of it.

He's clean this time. She had placed a charm on the contract so the grime on his fingers wouldn't smudge the parchment, but it has proved unnecessary. They allow inmates one shower a week, and she guesses that he purposely waited until today. It wouldn't do for him to appear filthy in front of her, even if he's still wearing his Azkaban-issued jumpsuit, and his hands are shackled to the table. She hadn't realized how dirty he must have been last time, her sight slightly compromised in the flickering torchlight, but she can make the comparison now. His skin is more even, hair brighter, and there's no dirt lining his fingernails. The room smells earthy and damp, but there's a scent of soap, light and bitter, that tendrils through the air. It's at complete odds with everything around her.

It takes her a moment to think of what spell he must be talking about - long enough for annoyance to strain the press of his mouth, and a muscle to begin twitching in his temple. She takes an extra second to respond, if only because he had made her wait until Sunday to confirm a meeting. Her expression had been much in the same state since she last saw him.

"Only by the Ministry. It can't be removed by anyone but the original caster. It does wear off, but I'll be casting it again every night, when I bring you from here to the house. The Portkey in the necklace can be activated by me, you, the Minister, and the three Aurors who know about this. It's a safeguard. We will work to protect you if need be."

"Right." He says it like it's a common lie he'd heard a hundred times and knew to agree with anyway.

"It might seem like we wouldn't care about protecting Death Eaters, but in this case, we're all using one another for something we want. If you don't believe we'll protect you for any other reason, believe that we'll do all we can to protect the mission - which you would be the biggest player in."

He seems to buy this, his look knowing before his eyes travel back to the folder for a moment. "Will I be able to protect myself?"

This very question had been the hardest for the Ministry to reach an agreement on. In the end, few are happy with what is necessary. "If it is needed to remain

undercover, you are permitted to cast magic. Use of the Killing Curse is only permitted in self-defense - if you kill someone outside of an extreme situation of guarding your own life, you will be put to death."

His body seems to lock up, and if he weren't so ghostly pale, she might have expected all loss of color. "To death?"

She nods, her chin raising. "I suggest you don't kill anyone unless it's worth your life later. We know that your…lack of willingness to commit murder is well known among your circle. If they want to test your loyalty and commitment by demanding you kill someone, we have taken measures to make it look authentic. I'll explain more upon agreement."

He looks back to the contract, but his eyes are steady on a single spot, and she knows he's only using it as a pretense now. The moment she had first handed it to him, he had barely glanced at it before demanding his legal representative. Even showing the contract - and so the information - with someone else, was _against_ the contract. For a short time that had felt much longer, she had been sure he was going to back out. Then he had started to read before she was even deep into her contemplation on what to say to make him.

She has been going back and forth between knowing he was going to turn down the deal, to knowing that he was definitely going to take it. There's a lot at stake either way, but if he can pull this off, he can achieve things it might take him decades to do - or not ever - if he didn't. There's risk, but he has the backing of the Ministry. Of her. And, despite everything, she honors the lives placed within her hands.

Hermione takes a deep breath, feeling her blood pressure spike and press against her skin. Her fingers curl in her lap, resisting the urge to wipe at the sweat along her hairline. The knowledge of it coming down to her to protect Malfoy's life is as nerve-inspiring and conflicting as it likely is for him. Not that they haven't been in such positions before, but never like this.

Malfoy's chains clink as he sets the contract down, lifting his eyes to hers. His eyebrows are slightly raised and his look is severe, with the knuckle of his index finger turned white as he presses the tip next to a paragraph.

"Life?"

She knew he'd get to that. "If you tell any Death Eater, or anyone connected to them, about people involved with the Ministry, or a Ministry plan to infiltrate,

attack, or locate them, _or_ share any knowledge provided to you by the Ministry as defined in the contract. Also, if you attempt to endanger any Ministry employees, or sabotage the assignment, you will receive life in prison. If you share any information or your assignment with anyone outside of the Ministry or Death Eater circles, or if you attempt to escape or hide, you will receive a minimum of ten years added to your original sentence."

She could recite every bit of the contract and terms to him in her sleep - she'd dreamt about it just last night.

Malfoy's expression had turned blank partway through her clarification, and he reminds her of an old, stone wall - straight, even, and solid when it should have been leaning and beaten. "I want that altered."

Hermione feels her eyes twitch wider. "There--"

"I'm already putting my life at risk. There are situations where--"

"If you don't plan on doing any of it, then it's not a problem, is it?" She scrutinizes him, her fingers running rapidly over a quill beneath the table.

"Unless there's a leak in the Ministry, and I get a Death Eater Polyjuiced into you and asking for all the information. If I escape with my life, I'm then sentenced to it without preamble--"

"The likelihood of that happening--"

"Is still a possibility, and so I want the contract altered. Or have you forgotten things such as war tactics while celebrating your victory the past four years?"

All she does is remember war tactics. There's a tense rush at the bottom of her throat, and a stiffness that takes over her chest. She can't decide if the pressure is trying to force the words up or down, but she feels the need to conjure a hundred sentences that will turn him leaning, beaten.

"In a situation like that," she begins, her voice sounding far away to her hearing, "the case would--"

"And how am I to know that this isn't some elaborate way to give me more time in Azkaban? To make sure I--"

"You honestly think we'd put in that much effort? If you were released and didn't

show any allegiance to their side, you're safer in here than out there. Why would we bother?" She has to clamp her teeth shut to stop herself from calling him mad. It wasn't something that would likely help the progress of this agreement, and she can't tell if he's serious or proclaiming bigger things to get the smaller ones he demands. If he is serious, his paranoia is ridiculous, but would work in their favor when they needed it in him.

He's tense, his back stiff and his fingers coiled. She puts her own against the edge of the table, her mind twisting with all the things he can do. "You expect me to literally sign my life away, and refuse to let me verify the facts--"

"You don't need to verify the facts. The Ministry isn't run by _your side_ any longer." That might have been too much while she should have been trying to get him to work for their side, but her anger is strangling her logic. "We're not corrupt--"

He makes a sound that is a cross between a _tsk_ and a puff of air. "It''s _politics_ , Granger. Either you've gone mad, or the war did nothing to rid your naivety."

Her heart is building beneath all that pressure in her chest, and she can feel and hear it thrumming harder against her eardrums. "This isn't a political agenda. We're doing it to prevent another war. That's a--"

"I refuse to sign the contract until a clause is added that I may change my mind on being involved, in which case the contract would become null and void." He says it calm and plainly. His back and shoulders are still stiff, but his expression gives nothing away.

She stares at him for a moment, pulling in a breath through the dryness, and tastes the bitterness of his soap on her tongue. She has the distinct feeling that she has just been played, though she isn't sure how. She narrows her eyes at him, and his left eyebrow twitches a space higher.

"You're not in the position to make demands," she tells him. "This is the offer--" "I assure you"-his lips thin, and the chains drag as he flicks the contract across

the table towards her-"I am."

Hermione glares at him, and he stares back at her, undisturbed. He's unmoving, and she knows without pushing it further that he's the same in his demand. He's serious. It would mean they could be moments from succeeding in the mission and he could back out. It meant he could back out if the food wasn't to his taste, if the

road got a little rocky, if they didn't meet whatever would be his next demand.

_Damn it_. "Again, this is the offer. If you don't accept it now, it doesn't come back again, Malfoy."

He gives her a steady look for three, four heartbeats and then nods his chin towards the door. "Then call the guards in. I'm done."

He called her bluff with a carelessness that stomped on every nerve. She feels the need to spit words of fury, throw something at him, or act just as careless as she walks away. There's a possibility he's lying, but if he isn't, trying another bluff could give him too much time to cement a decision against signing at all.

_Damn it_.

She clenches her fists until her nails bite into her palms, taking a deep, filling breath before releasing it slowly. Of course the beginning couldn't even be easy. Of course.

Hermione grabs her things off the table, placing them slowly into her briefcase to not give away her frustration. She refuses to look at him, knowing it would quickly turn into an attempt of burning his eyes out with the force of her own. She wishes Azkaban could have broken him. They would have had an easier time building him up to the assignment than dealing with him like this. Draco Malfoy knows how to get what he wants when someone wants something from him - that's one thing about him that hasn't changed.

She doesn't say anything to him as she stands, preferring to let him wonder. Maybe he would have a different response when she came back, but she knows better than to give in to wishful thinking. She sniffs, sliding her briefcase from the table, and walks to the door.

Both guards turn as she exits, and she closes the door firmly shut behind her. "I require immediate correspondence with the Minister of Magic and Harry Potter."


End file.
